


move right through me (on my way to you)

by knightship



Series: big bad wolf in a little red hood [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha!Stiles, Halloween, M/M, Werewolf Sex, for daunt, power bottom!Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-11
Updated: 2012-10-11
Packaged: 2017-11-16 02:33:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/534511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knightship/pseuds/knightship
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek can't say no.</p>
            </blockquote>





	move right through me (on my way to you)

**Author's Note:**

> For the lovely Daunt over on tumblr, who inspired this piece with her fantastic artwork! (found here: http://daunt.tumblr.com/post/33013698258/a-variation-on-this-halloween-picture-i-did)
> 
> The music I listened to during this was Die Young by Ke$ha and Paralyzer by Finger Eleven, which is where the title came from.

It’s Jackson’s Halloween party, and Stiles is quickly working his way to getting skunked. Derek sighs, plucks the cup out of his hand and gets a flash of red and teeth in return. He doesn’t flinch, just grits his teeth- he’s too used to dealing with moody Alphas to react.

Sometimes, it aches to see how similar Laura and Stiles are. Were. He doesn’t know anymore. He’s had more than few shots himself, and suddenly Stiles is plastered to his front, working his hands under Derek’s hoodie. Claws scrape against his stomach, making the muscles jump.

“Like seeing you in red, Derek. Sexy,” Stiles grumbles, loose and giddy. Derek grabs his hands through the material, but he wants to let go. He wants to please Stiles so instinctively that he can’t find the line between what’s loyalty to his Alpha and what’s genuine desire.

“Someone will see,” he mutters, and Stiles rolls his hips against Derek’s, grinning. He bites Derek on the chin, the cheekbone. The bites heal fast, but they still linger with pain. Stiles likes to mark him. Likes to make him feel in the morning like he won’t, and probably never will.

“Good, I want someone to see me fucking you,” he whispers, and Derek can’t repress the noise he makes, or the way he grips Stiles’ hands tighter.

“What do you want? Tell me what you want,” he demands, and Stiles grins at him, gives him a sweet kiss that leaves him wanting so much more.

He grabs him by the belt buckle and starts checking doors, startling more than a few couples with his red eyes and Derek’s angry face looming over his shoulder. But his laugh makes up for it, and there are only a few hissed “Stilinski!”s rather than the screams that there would be any other day. If there’s one way Stiles is better at this than he would be, it’s that Stiles knows exactly how to toe the line between ludicrous and believable.

Finally they find the laundry room empty, and Stiles hops up onto the dryer and turns it on with a chuckle.

“Always thought it’d be weird to do it on top of a dryer. Now it’s kind of sexy. Then again, you make everything sexy,” Stiles says, and Derek moves to take off the hoodie, but Stiles grabs the bottom of it and tugs it back down over his stomach.

“Leave it on,” he purrs, eyes glimmering and smile wicked in a way he never would have equated with Stiles’ face. He swallows dry, and Stiles hums, licking at his pulse and shoving a hand down the front of his jeans.

There’s something about the touch of an Alpha that makes everything heightened, Derek thinks as he gets his claws into Stiles’ hips, and he bucks shamelessly into Stiles’ fist.With K- with others it wasn’t so sharp and visceral, he couldn’t practically feel his neurons firing with each new sensation. Peter had said something about pheromones, not that he was strictly paying attention at the time because Stiles had gum and was doing cruel things with it in his mouth. And for a sixteen year old with no apparent previous experience, Stiles knows just how to twist his fingers and press his pinky under the crown to make him gasp. Sometimes, like now, he’ll think that maybe this is the way that Stiles gets himself off, but he’s never seen it. Stiles knows how greedy he is with images like that, and he likes to tease. The image is enough to bring him close, panting wetly against Stiles’ neck, and Stiles eases off gently, pulling his hand out of Derek’s jeans to lick his palm clean.

“Please, just tell me,” he groans, rutting against the vibrating edge of the dryer and whining, too deep in his chest for the sound to make it to air. Stiles is too far back on the dryer to grind against properly, and he knows it. He’s holding it over Derek’s head with a smile, his knees locked against his waist but all of him too far away to get a good grip on.

“Kisses first, sweetheart,” he says, and Derek attacks his mouth desperately. Stiles laughs and nearly bites his tongue in two. The blood makes the kisses sour and electric, and the feeling of Stiles’ tongue poking at the holes adds a flavor of pain to the pleasure.

When Stiles pulls back, his pupils are huge, and it takes him a moment to blink and find his words. His tongue makes a slow circuit around his lips, gathering up the blood smeared there.

“On your knees,” he says softly, and Derek falls to his knees obediently, pushing Stiles’ shirt out of the way when he scoots forward. The scent just above the waistband of his jeans is the perfect mix of the salty bite of sex and the clean hair-skin-clothes smell of him, and he mouths at it just hard enough to elicit a gasp and squirm.

“Unbuckle my pants,” Stiles commands, and he does it, drags them low over the crucible of his hips.

“To the knees,” Stiles says, and he does it, getting his mouth on skin that will make him sigh, but won’t get him smacked for stimulating without permission.

A hand comes down and claws prickle at the back of his neck, pulling at the skin there that will make him go limp if Stiles grips a little harder. The puppy reflex, Stiles calls it, and it’s an apt name. He looks up, tongue laving apologetically at a rapidly fading bruise, and Stiles smiles at him, almost shy about it.

“Two fingers and tongue. I want this quick and hard, want you in me like minutes ago,” Stiles says, shoving his hips forward and nearly falling off the dryer for it. Derek ducks his head and yanks Stiles up, makes him settle half on his back, hands splayed on the dryer so that Derek can get his tongue inside of him. Stiles is already loose- he’s nearly always loose now, because he likes to do things like spring this shit on Derek in the middle of a party and not have to wait for lube.

Three, four quick jabs of his tongue past the clenching ring of muscles and Stiles is gripping his hair too hard, swearing.

“No, fuck, I can’t last that long. Just go, goddammit, just fuck me already.”

“It’s going to hurt,” he says, stupidly, and Stiles yanks him up, all teeth and power in his voice.

“Derek, fuck me. Now.”

He couldn’t disobey that even if he wanted to.

He shoves his jeans down and grabs Stiles by the thighs. Stiles’ hand goes down between them to guide him in, the prick of claws on his dick a warning or a command, he’s not sure. He pushes in and Stiles makes this noise, all rumble and echo and heat, that has him offering his throat even though he knows Stiles won’t take it, won’t bite him like that. It’d be too cementing of a mark, would make this unspoken thing a thing with weight, and so Stiles whines and licks him frantically, but won’t bite. Sometimes he doesn’t understand Stiles or his definition of the word “control”- he walks around with his eyes red half of the time, but when Derek wants it, when Derek offers, when Derek wouldn’t be able to turn that down if Stiles offered, Stiles just licks him. It’s baffling.

Stiles grabs him by the shoulders and levers himself up, putting all of his weight in Derek’s arms and rolling himself in one long, sinuous snap, down and in and gratingly good. Derek doesn’t move, just let’s Stiles take what he wants, and take it he does, hard and fast.

“Jesus, fuck, Derek, God, you feel so good, trust you so much,” he says, and Derek catches his mouth. Stiles likes to kiss while he’s being fucked, but he’s not very good at it, so Derek has to coax his mouth open and move slow, his teeth blunt, or Stiles will bite too hard and he’ll have to explain why a chunk of his lip is gone or he’s missing teeth.

Stiles is trembling now, trying to move faster and faltering, the noise coming out of his mouth utterly inhuman and breaking slowly.

“Come on, Stiles, you can take it,” he says, and the red light in his eyes flickers uncertainly, the humanity fighting the animal, until Stiles gasps like he’s letting water into his lungs and drives his claws into the meat of Derek’s shoulder, every muscle seizing. Derek grunts and strokes Stiles until he’s grimacing, then sits him back on the dryer and drives into him hard. He glares at Stiles until he says,

“Oh, fine, you can come,” and he chokes.

Until Stiles told him, he didn’t realize it was a wolf thing for the senses to expand on orgasm. He can hear every heartbeat at the party, smell every bit of perfume or cologne, feel every shock of pleasure that Stiles grants him. And it’s worse with Stiles. It practically hurts with Stiles, it’s so intense, but that’s probably just an Alpha thing too. Hopefully it’s just an Alpha thing.

He doesn’t realize why he’s growling until Stiles shouts hoarsely,

“Scott, you better not open that fucking door, man, you might not survive it.” There’s just the barest hint of command in his tone, but the door snaps shut, and Stiles runs his hands through Derek’s hair, breathing harshly. His teeth still haven’t retracted, and he leans forward to kiss Stiles soft, to bring them both back down. Stiles still has that hypervigilance thing going on, and the way his sense must open would wreck Derek, but Stiles just takes some comforting afterwards. And it’s not cuddling, no matter what he says.

“Trust you,” Stiles mutters again in between kisses, “you know that, right? I couldn’t do this with anyone else, I’d bite them, I’d kill them,” he says, and his eyes are so earnest that Derek doesn’t know what to say.

“Peter-” is not what he means to say, but Stiles mouth just turns down, no reprimand in it but hurting him all the same.

“Peter would slit my throat as soon as I came and you know it. There is no one else I can trust, and no one else I would,” he says, and for a minute “trust” sounds awfully like another word.


End file.
